


if she is afraid, then she is no widow at all.

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, POV Natasha Romanov, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Red Room (Marvel), Ugh, kind of a drabble on natasha's thoughts, natasha needs literally so many hugs, throughout the whole thing, wanda maximoff is the strongest avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18873949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha's thoughts about her last two encounters with Wanda....A bit of a character study.





	if she is afraid, then she is no widow at all.

Natasha doesn’t do relationships. Or feelings. 

 

She doesn’t really understand them, either, if she’s being perfectly honest. (She rarely ever is.)

 

And she’s not sure if it's a sign of her growing soft, or something of the like, but there’s something about the way things are going with Wanda… it’s strange. 

 

It started simply enough, she supposes: Clint was out of the tower a couple nights ago when she’d returned from a particularly bloody mission, and she'd needed an extra set of hands to stitch up the sizable gash down her back; she’d seen Wanda looking at her with clear interest in her cerulean blue eyes in the past, and, if Natasha was being entirely honest with herself, she’d always found the young witch attractive… and, well. The idea had promptly snow-balled from there.

 

(And besides, she couldn’t help seeing an asset in Wanda… she was more powerful than any of them, perhaps more powerful than she herself would ever know. 

 

It would benefit Natasha greatly to form a personal connection to someone of her caliber.)

 

It went well—though, she thinks she might’ve misjudged the lasting effects of the op on her admittedly fragile state of mind, as there are one or two dissociative gaps in her comprehensive timeline of that night (though only at the very beginning), so, she thinks Wanda may have seen a great deal more vulnerability than she’d planned on showing to begin with. 

 

Oh, well. 

 

Even with her years of training and expertise, missions seldom went off without a hitch. 

 

(Wanda wasn’t a mission, of course—but old habits die hard, she thinks, because _everything’s_ a mission in her mind, whether she intends it to be or not.)

 

Then, she’d kneeled before Wanda (admittedly a slip on her part—typically she takes all the control she can get, but Wanda made her want to… well. It doesn’t matter now, she supposes) and tasted her tangy sweetness, bringing the brunette girl to the edge of pleasure and tipping her oh-so-gently over into its euphoric depths. 

 

Did she do it because she wanted to? She’s not sure. 

 

(She thinks she might have actually wanted to, which just might be one of the scariest thoughts she’s had in years.

 

And, another thing—it aroused her in some way, pleasuring Wanda. That’s never happened before.

 

Needless to say, she’s doing her best to avoid thinking about it.)

 

Did she do it in exchange for Wanda’s hospitality, a sort of ‘payment’ (for lack of a better term)? Probably.

 

Did she do it to be ‘useful’ to someone, to Wanda? She’d rather not think about it.

 

And then, Wanda had stitched her up with delicate hands and deft fingers, whispering reassurances even whilst Natasha stubbornly refused to flinch—the pain was nothing new, and heaven knew the knee-jerk reaction of flinching and crying and freezing in response to injury had long since been trained (or rather, _beaten_ ) out of her.

 

After that, she’d expected things to go back to normal. 

 

They didn’t. 

 

She hated the tiny, barely-there twinge of relief in her chest that Wanda seemed to _care_ in some capacity, even as she knew it was both foolish and utterly pointless.

 

Wanda had helped her, and in return, Natasha had satiated her desire.

 

(She’d never known it to be more complicated than that. She’d been made into a sexual being from an almost painfully young age, drilled unforgivingly into dirty mattresses by rough older men as she screamed and sobbed until Madame B. could trust her to go on missions—by that time, she was well-acquainted enough with her training to understand the need for allowing men and women and boys and girls to draw her into their beds whether she liked it or not, because the mission always came first; after a while, it didn’t feel like she was being forced to do it anymore. 

 

Rather, it simply felt like another activity—recreational, almost, though certainly not for her own enjoyment.

 

It was like… executing a kill, or embarking on 10-mile runs to stay in shape. 

 

Not enjoyable, necessarily, but routine. Simple.

 

After a while, sex became simple. 

 

So why did she feel like it _mattered_ all of a sudden?)

 

Still, Wanda had acted… strange. Like maybe she _cared_. 

 

(Natasha would never deign to believe such a thing.)

 

Natasha knew better.

 

So, she waited for an opportunity to present itself, the chance to give Wanda what she’d been wordlessly requesting over the past couple of days—more. 

 

Specifically, more sex.

 

(Because, what else could she possibly want?)

 

Natasha could do that. 

 

And, she did. 

 

It was early morning, and Natasha hadn’t been able to sleep for the past two days. She had curled up on the counter with a mug of coffee at her side, just thinking—she heard Wanda’s light but uneven footfalls from the minute the girl left her quarters.

 

Seducing her was easy—what wasn’t so easy was the feeling in Natasha’s gut as she did, as she slipped her fingers teasingly through Wanda’s soaking folds, as the girl moaned and writhed helplessly against her, trapped in the throes of overpowering _pleasure_.

 

It felt… warm, in a way. 

 

Scary. 

 

She didn’t know that kind of warmth; she never had.

 

(Throughout her life, she’d come to understand that most all women experienced sexual desire just as often, if not more so, than men did, even if it was somewhat taboo to openly discuss. 

 

She pretended to understand, of course, to complain while undercover about not having been laid in “ages," and make conversation about the various kinds of sex she’d had and which of them were most enjoyable—but as far as she was concerned, she just didn’t _have_ that within her.

 

She didn’t know if she ever had, but, undoubtedly, it wouldn’t have survived the Red Room, so, she wasn’t surprised that she found herself entirely unacquainted with the ever-elusive concept of her own desire.

 

But, for the second time in three days—with _Wanda_ , of all people—she felt that warmth pulling uncomfortably in her gut, a sort of heat settling lower and lower in her belly; she wasn’t scared of much anymore, but that certainly did the trick. 

 

She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She still doesn’t.

 

It was scary, and awful, yet… addicting, somehow, like something she actually _wanted_.

 

She's no stranger to making do without, but right now, she can't find a single reason to denying herself. 

 

She can't find a single reason why she shouldn’t give Wanda pleasure, help the girl unwind, be _useful_ —and as for the curious thing she feels curling in the depths of her stomach with every encounter, well… she would just have to make do. 

 

And after all, exposure therapy had long since been proven the most effective combatant with irrational fears throughout the years—and if she is afraid, then she is no Widow at all.)

**Author's Note:**

> as always, would love to hear any thoughts! (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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